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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
239
And
there
was
another
faint
sound
that
came
to
the
Duke’s
ears.
It
he
understood
when,
a
moment
later,
he
saw
the
surface
of
the
river
alive
with
infinitesimal
fountains.
Rain!
His
very
mantle
was
aspersed.
In
another
minute
he
would
stand
sodden,
inglorious,
a
mock.
He
didn’t
hesitate.
“Zuleika!”
he
cried
in
a
loud
voice.
Then
he
took
a
deep
breath,
and,
burying
his
face
in
his
mantle,
plunged.
Full
on
the
river
lay
the
mantle
outspread.
Then
it,
too,
went
under.
A
great
roll
of
water
marked
the
spot.
The
plumed
hat
floated.
There
was
a
confusion
of
shouts
from
the
raft,
of
screams
from
the
roof.
Many
youths--all
the
youths
there--cried
“Zuleika!”
and
leapt
emulously
headlong
into
the
water.
“Brave
fellows!”
shouted
the
elder
men,
supposing
rescue-work.
The
rain
pelted,
the
thunder
pealed.
Here
and
there
was
a
glimpse
of
a
young
head
above
water--for
an
instant
only.
Shouts
and
screams
now
from
the
infected
barges
on
either
side.
A
score
of
fresh
plunges.
“Splendid
fellows!”
Meanwhile,
what
of
the
Duke?
I
am
glad
to
say
that
he
was
alive
and
(but
for
the
cold
he
had
caught
last
night)
well.
Indeed,
his
mind
had
never
worked
more
clearly
than
in
this
swift
dim
underworld.
His
mantle,
the
cords
of
it
having
come
untied,
had
drifted
off
him,
leaving
his
arms
free.
With
breath
well-pent,
he
steadily
swam,
scarcely
less
amused
than
annoyed
that
the
gods
had,
after
all,
dictated
the
exact
time
at
which
he
should
seek
death.
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